


To Have and To Hold

by orithea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Infidelity, M/M, this is not a particularly Mary friendly fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I'm just supposed to get married, knowing that there's something here between us that we refuse to talk about?” John is moving closer as he talks, backing Sherlock against the wall. “Knowing that a week ago I was all but inviting you to ask me for... anything you wanted. And you do, don't you? Want something from me?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> <i>There are a considerable number of things Sherlock wants from John. He doesn’t think about them. Didn’t think John was aware of them. ”I don't know what you mean.”</i></p><p> <i>“Me, Sherlock,” John says. “I mean that you want me.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Have and To Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2impostors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2impostors/gifts).



> Inspired by sinning with Lyd on twitter and [their art](http://detectivelyd.tumblr.com/post/126864885529/full-size-i-come-bearing-sin).

John spends the entire day expecting Sherlock to say something.

He can’t have imagined it. Christ, he’s been thinking about it all week: Sherlock sat across from him in the flat that night and the easy familiarity of it all. They were _flirting_ , or at least John was, and unless alcohol has rendered the memory hazy and wishful, Sherlock was too.

And they've not spoken of it since.

There is a moment—after they've dressed that morning—when John is certain, _certain_ it’s coming.

“Honestly, John, you’re going to get married looking like that?” Sherlock raises a skeptical eyebrow, though it's far more statement than question, in that special way Sherlock has.

John looks down. He’s perfectly respectable—at Sherlock’s insistence (John tries not to think what it means that Sherlock has put more effort into this wedding than the groom himself) he’s wearing a morning suit tailored within an inch of its life and, well, he’s not a vain man but he knows he’s cleaned up very nicely. “What?”

Sherlock slides his fingers through the lapels of John’s jacket and tugs him closer. “Your tie is crooked. I’d be remiss in my responsibilities as best man not to fix it.”

If he were anyone else, Sherlock would have kissed him then, John thinks.John expects him to, and holds his breath while Sherlock eyes him critically, closely, both hands on John far more than seems necessary.

Nothing happens.

\---

“Why did we have to get to the church so early anyway?” John stalks around the empty choir room, currently repurposed to hold the groom and his best man before the ceremony. He has been uncharacteristically irascible all morning, wound tight. Sherlock attributes it to pre-wedding jitters, despite John's complete lack of interest in the proceedings until the day of. He's heard such feelings are common, and that it's one of his duties to allay them. Sherlock can occasionally hear the laughter of the bride and her attendants, sequestered in the room next door; they seem to be faring much better on this count.

“In case of”—Sherlock waves his hand in the direction of the chapel—“problems. Weddings are full of them. Flowers not arriving. Church collapsing. Dead bridesmaid. Rings don’t fit. Give me your hand, by the way.”

John does, and Sherlock drops his wedding band into his palm.

“This isn't bad luck or anything like that?” John asks, slipping the ring onto his finger without waiting for an answer.

Sherlock watches John flex his hand, testing the foreign feeling of the band. He guessed at the size, as much as he ever guesses anything. It fits perfectly. “Luck is a logical fallacy, and it would be worse 'luck' for it to not go over your knuckle during the ceremony.”

John stills and stares at his hand for a few moments, sliding the ring up and down his finger. “Why do you care so much?” John asks, finally.

“Because you have entrusted me with what you described as the biggest and most important day of your life.”

The look John gives him is one that Sherlock recognizes. Startlingly similar to the one Sherlock received the one time he questioned the importance of the day before. Says that Sherlock is missing something obvious, something huge. It’s confusing. John somehow always manages to confuse him.

“Despite my considerable intellect, I do think you remember these situations aren’t my strongest point.”

John sighs deeply. “It’s not that I’m having second thoughts, but this is weird. All of it is so weird.”

Sherlock tilts his head, narrows his eyes. “How so?”

“I'm just supposed to get married, knowing that there's something here between us that we refuse to talk about?” John is moving closer as he talks, backing Sherlock against the wall. “Knowing that a week ago I was all but inviting you to ask me for... anything you wanted. And you do, don't you? Want something from me?”

There are a considerable number of things Sherlock wants from John. He doesn’t think about them. Didn’t think John was aware of them. ”I don't know what you mean.”

“Me, Sherlock,” John says. “I mean that you want me.”

“I’ve never—”

John cuts him off. “I know what you’re going to say, that you’ve never wanted anyone, but please don’t lie to me Sherlock, not about this. You wanted me. You did.”

_John in his chair, legs spread and a relaxed comfort Sherlock hasn’t seen for years but it makes sense because now he’s home again and it would be so easy to move to the floor, to place his head between John’s knees and John would let him he’s only done this once before but that was a business transaction and this is John John John..._

“Yes,” he says. “I wanted you.”

“Do you”—John licks his own lips and Sherlock can feel his stare like a tangible weight—“do you still?”

Sherlock nods once and John closes the space between them in a breath, takes Sherlock’s mouth in a desperate kiss that feels like it has five years of weight lingering behind it. Sherlock moans into John’s mouth and pulls him closer; his hands grasp at the loops of John’s trousers while John fists the lapels of his jacket.

John breaks away for a breath, gasps, “I’ve waited—”

Sherlock doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want to think about missed opportunities, years, today. “Just shut up and kiss me,” he says. John obliges.

John’s leg slides between Sherlock’s thighs, and bringing his body that much closer makes the hard shape of the box holding Mary’s ring in Sherlock’s inner pocket press against them both. Sherlock can feel John go rigid against him at the reminder of why they’re here but he’s not ready for John to have second thoughts, not now. He sucks John’s lower lip into his mouth and grazes his teeth against it until John is gasping.

“You,” John growls as he breaks away. “I should have known you—” his mouth goes to Sherlock’s throat, biting along his Adam’s apple, while his hands are at Sherlock’s tie, fumbling to loosen it.

“We can’t do that,” Sherlock says breathily. “Not enough time before—”

“Fuck, right, I’m getting married,” John says, then sucks Sherlock’s skin between his teeth.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says brokenly, “you can’t do that right now, you can’t.” He pushes John away from him and can see his face fall in confusion, so he very quickly falls to his knees and pulls him back in. “Can’t leave a mark right now; wouldn’t have to be me to notice that.”

John looks down at Sherlock with a mix of confusion and awe. “What are you—”

“Can I?” Sherlock asks.

“You—”

Impatient at John’s incomprehension, Sherlock sucks John’s fingers into his mouth and  runs his tongue over the rim of his wedding band until John is moaning loudly enough that Sherlock just knows the entire church must hear him. He pulls his mouth away, kisses the tips of John's spit slick fingers. “If you still want a wedding, you'll need to be quiet,” he whispers.

“Oh Christ, this is wrong,” John says, hushed. He's looking down at Sherlock with something that could be easily read as adoration, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's wet lower lip.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Never.”

So Sherlock doesn't think about it, just unzips John's trousers and strokes his cock through the fabric of his pants. He's considered this in a purely hypothetical way, ashamedly, in the days since the stag do. Being actually confronted with John's cock, thick and—Sherlock checks with his thumb brushed over the head, eliciting a shuddery breath from John—yes, leaking, is almost too much. Sherlock is desperately hard in his own trousers. He slips John's cock from his pants, feels his mouth flood with saliva, and crowds in closer.

“You're really going to...” John trails off, seemingly unwilling to ask his friend to go to such lengths. Sherlock could easily be convinced that John finds this to be the most brilliant thing Sherlock's ever done, going by the look on his face.

“May very well be my last chance, don't you think?” With that, Sherlock takes John into his mouth.

John must be biting his hand; his moans are muffled and Sherlock doubts anyone in the next room could hear them (he still hears Mary laughing, pushes it from his mind). His other hand—the left one, Sherlock can feel the ring against his scalp—is in Sherlock's hair, stroking, petting, tugging just a little when Sherlock swipes the flat of his tongue against the underside of John's fat cockhead. Sherlock would give anything for quiet not to be a necessity. What would John say right now if he could? Call Sherlock brilliant (it's really not a brilliant blow job, even Sherlock can admit that: sloppy, too wet, no finesse, but then he's not very practiced and enthusiasm makes up a great deal for skill)? Tell him he's waited so long, that everything is wrong and he's made a terrible mistake, that he wants to return home and—

No, Sherlock is going to enjoy this for what it is. He has his hand on John's shaft now and is sucking in long slow pulls. John is murmuring Sherlock's name under his breath, a mantra, and his hand leaves Sherlock's head to grasp his shoulder. A warning.

John's fingers dig in nearly to the point of pain. “I'm going to—”

Sherlock pulls off, takes in a great gulp of air. “In my mouth.” Needs must. Can't chance having the groom's semen on the best man's jacket.

The sentence itself seems to help John along; Sherlock's lips are scarcely stretched back around his cock before John begins to come in strong pulses against Sherlock's tongue. It's revolting. Sherlock would let him do it again every day of his life.

John is saying his name again, bends down on the floor next to him and takes Sherlock's face in his hands and kisses him again fiercely. The bitterness lingering on Sherlock's tongue is overtaken by the rich taste of John's own mouth, traces chased away by John's tongue, slow and languorous. Sherlock never knew John would kiss like this. So much wasted time.

John has done up his pants and moved back to kissing Sherlock, palming his cock through the front of his trousers, when there’s a knock on the door. They freeze, guilty.

“Five minutes until the ceremony, you two!” calls a cheery voice from the other side.

Their eyes meet and there's a mix of relief and disbelief passing between them. Did they really just do something so monumentally stupid?

“Wank you off, then?” John says after a moment, and they burst into nervous laughter together.

\---

The ceremony feels so distant, so far away from what happened just before. A blessing that Sherlock had made John practice his vows til he was satisfied with them in the days leading up to the wedding: he hardly had to think to say the words. John's mind is back there in that room, and when it comes time to kiss the bride he hopes she can't smell Sherlock on him.

John sits there at the reception between his wife and his best man, thinking of Sherlock’s mouth around him, and hopes that it isn’t plainly visible on his face.

_What have I done?_

 


End file.
